


I Follow in the Footsteps You Branded on My World

by Lady_Cleo



Category: Take the Lead (2006)
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Dancing, Deviates From Canon, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1530134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/Lady_Cleo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgan and Pierre and the music that moves their world...</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Follow in the Footsteps You Branded on My World

**Author's Note:**

> There is the passion that arises when we dance and there is the passion that arises when we love. Theirs was a blending of both...

His wife had been beautiful, graceful in every movement… except dancing. She could shimmy and sway to a beat, but her feet stubbornly refused to slide and step as they should in a true dance. One of the few fights they had shared in their marriage was his occasional slip into Instructor mode, correcting and trying to teach and pushing when she tried to give up. That was when she pulled from his arms and spit out long strings of French invectives and called him _Maestro_ in a taunting voice. Usually he would watch her retreating form and let his head tip backwards, regarding the heavens with closed eyes, as he prayed for patience and cursed himself for pushing her. Once or twice, he had snapped back that even the greatest teachers couldn’t teach her, that her clumsiness and stupid feet were cursed, that she was hopeless and he was doomed to a rhythmless partner. But each night, he would slip into their bed, and curl himself around her form and hold her gently until the tears stopped and she smiled again and they moved in a rhythm all their own… which she never had a problem following.

Now he has Tina, not that he really realizes how he does, but she **is** in his life, and he trusts her and leans on her and depends on her and always manages to miss the look in her eyes. He guides his students with ease, a soft command that makes you yearn to obey rather than struggle to break it. He knows what he’s doing, except when it comes to the John Lake high detentioners… and Morgan.

Even his former students who went professional never challenged him the way she does. In an odd way she has the spirit of his mother, the woman who had inspired him to dance. His mother Vienne had been a beautiful graceful woman (in a way his wife had nearly been, to the point that having her in his life made sense, a natural extension of that feeling with which he’d grown up). French sensibilities aside, she had loved Pierre’s father to distraction, and him equally, and she truly loved to dance. His earliest recollections had been her voice, and sunshine, and a feeling of being loved as she twirled with him in her arms. When he’d grown a bit, and could stand on his own, she’d put him through paces and started teaching him steps. Other children learn to crawl, then walk, then run; Pierre had learned to dance, then fly.

His mother was passion and love and patience. She was luminous but calm, that bold fire within restrained and banked down in an acceptable form- until she danced. Then it was a miracle the floor didn’t combust beneath her heels. And when Pierre displayed his own uniquely molten ability, that inborn grace and fire, what choice was there but to follow in the footsteps she branded on his world?

Morgan was like that. She accepted instruction and correction, absorbing it and spinning it back out in a perfect adapted form. So textbook it rated 10s on a judging form, but with added flair and personalized style. Some girls merely moved, others floated, and still others glowed- little bells of candlelight shimmering in a ballroom. Morgan? She smoldered, she flared, she sparked- and burned the world down around her. Competitions were obliterated, competitors eradicated, and anyone in authority patronizingly acknowledged (then disregarded.) Few could keep up with her, fewer still could match her, and no one could teach her- except him.

For Morgan, it was only in Mr. Dulaine’s arms that her world stilled. Everything constantly spun around her at a fixed point, a boring blur of school and social life and expectations and attempts at controlling her. She twirled and twisted and dominated on a dance floor to make the world spin back, to make it slow and bow to her control instead of merely falling at her feet. She’d been dancing since she could stand, music flowing in and around and through, a rhythm she could never deny. Instructors had taught her the basics and she’d run with them, outdistancing and outstripping their ability to shape her further; always several steps ahead and too mature for her age, she’d rolled her eyes and outdone them and showed what they wanted before they could ever get the words out to ask. Her parents had scoured studios and competitions for her to conquer, and after a while, she’d taken over selection herself, choosing who she felt like beating _this_ time and hoping they’d at least put up a fight. When people told her she “didn’t meet standards or qualifications” she’d proved them wrong and barreled in anyway, sauntering off with a trophy or ribbon or huge bouquet for the inconvenience.

All that had changed when she’d found him. When she’d arrived at the modest townhouse style studio, she’d been intrigued, a whisper of a thrill sliding over her. When she’d entered the studio and approached the boards, her world had contracted, and she’d drawn a very deep breath. Then she’d heard that voice, and glanced over her shoulder and seen him- a photo come to life, a storybook hero made flesh. He’d stepped out of one of the numerous competition photos that peppered the walls and into her life, and dreams, and heart.

A partner she’d had for 3 days had commented that all the shots on the wall must be a sign of ego, or some kind of complex, trying to intimidate to hide his obvious inadequacies. Her nostrils had flared and her blood had risen in a heated spike, and she’d allowed the appearance of an anomalous false step or two to mask a few stomps on his toes and the introduction of her heel to his instep. When their dance was done, he’d limped to the sidelines and she’d whispered in his ear in a venomous tone that Pierre Dulaine was a dance **god** who could still easily do _anything_ on those pages, and that they were put there to inspire his students to attempt those heights, not intimidate them with something he didn’t think they could ever achieve. He’d left with his tail between his legs, and she’d wiped the floor with him and his new “partner” a few months later.

She protected him, and flirted with him, and adored him and let him challenge her. She was already great; he made her better still. Her partners were supposed to be evenly matched, but she still led (sometimes not so subtly) those boys around the floor, only truly content when _he_ held her. Her world drew tight as a follow spot, shutting out everything but them; it stopped, and shivered, and began to move again.

Pierre tried to tell himself he didn’t have favorites, but his actions sometimes belied that claim. He pulled her out more than any other girl to demonstrate a step, although he tried to be fair and never leave anyone out. He choreographed new moves for the class and used her to practice when she’d show up an hour before anyone else. He put together new and exciting steps just for her to try, because he didn’t like the idea of her being bored and he loved the look on her face when she watched and attempted and nailed with flawless execution, then turned a radiant smile on him as thanks. From time to time he feels her eyes on him as she moves around the floor with a partner, and he’s let himself get caught watching her as well, unable to tear his gaze away.

He’s lived in Europe and been in professional dance competitions where women dress like exotic flowers and birds and jewels, and he works in a city that pulses with color and beat and life. So it makes no sense that when he holds Morgan, his world get a little brighter, a little calmer (for all the blood racing in his veins and passion flying between them). It takes on that subtle jasmine scent she wears, and it lingers when she’s gone, and he’s stood in the center of a class, arms crossed as he watched, and caught a whiff of it on his shoulder as he turns to call an instruction, and can’t help the smile it brings.

It’s Caitlin who plants the idea for her to dance, to show the detentioneers what dance can be, in his head. Sweet Caitlin, who wants so badly to dance and keeps trying to give up; Pierre doesn’t let her, because he knows that once she lets go of trying to match the others, of trying to live up to her mother’s crushing expectations, of trying to be something she can never really be, she will embrace the quiet subtle beauty of her own style, the simple gracefulness he’s glimpsed in her and wants her to see for herself. He gives her confidence a quick boost, waits for her to smile, and steps away to present his request to Morgan.

It takes a few hours of convincing, and for a moment Pierre worries that the look in her eyes, the slight disdain in her voice is some kind of haughty derision, like she’s too good to help like this. She _is_ flawless, and picks on her partners, and blasts the others out of the water, but he’s never really thought she would be too queen-like, too Manhattan looking down on the Bronx, too above anyone to do a favor. He never thought she’d turn him down. It turns out, though, she’s just annoyed that the kids don’t realize the great favor they’ve been given, the wonderful opportunity before them, that they need convincing at all. “It’s great that you want to do this but if they aren’t thrilled at the thought of spending hours learning _anything_ from you, then screw ‘em.” He actually laughs aloud at that, earning a stunning look of delighted confusion from her, as though she thrilled she made him laugh and wants desperately to know how she managed it.

He suggests a waltz- timeless, classic, beautiful- but Morgan persists that an Argentine tango –so dramatic and passionate – will be the thing to make them see. Her understanding that these are club kids, and mostly ghetto ones at that, and that a dance that evokes the outrageous sexual currents they already move to will speak to them more than a beautiful dance they might find boring, surprises him. He’s known she was smart, and her knowledge of dance is astounding, but an understanding of the nuances in fellow humans – especially those so far removed from the ivory tower (at Central Park West) she resides in- sheds new light on facets of her he’d never seen before. Facets he can’t help but find appealing.

The base of the choreography is knocked out in a few hours, with them bouncing ideas off one another and enhancing the other’s suggestions, but they still spend the next few days practicing after class until the music ends and they step apart panting, and Morgan smiles and announces, “that was it.” The performance in class goes perfectly, as he’d hoped, and just as quickly as she stalked in, Morgan has exited while he lines the kids up and prepares to finally really teach them.

That night, when he arrives back at the studio, he’s halfway up the stairs, floating on the memory of the kids’ new enthusiasm, when he hears music drifting down the halls. Glancing at his watch, he knows it’s too late for class to be going on, and Tina will have left by now- although she’s usually better about securing everything before she goes. The only other person to have a key is Morgan, a special trust he granted her so she could practice as she needed, but he can’t imagine why she’d be there now.

Easing himself down the hall, he sees the door is open a crack, and a soft glow is emanating from the area of the dance floor. He hadn’t registered the light when he’d ridden up, and a sense of unease fills him as he slips in the door. He’s reaching for the phone on the front desk when he spots a flash of movement reflected in the window opposite him. Feet still silent on the ground, he walks a few steps forward and peers around the wall. Morgan is dancing alone on the floor, gliding barefoot between and around the dozen or so candles resting on small glass plates on the hardwood. The music is gypsy guitars and quiet piano and a woman’s voice, and the look on Morgan’s face is pure tortured ecstasy, as though her heart is breaking while she dances. Her hair is still up in its tight style from earlier, minus the roses, and a few tendrils have escaped to frame her expression, but it is her dress that catches his attention now. The tight black costume she’d donned in the schoolroom is gone, replaced by a one shoulder knee length gown that flits and shimmers and glows the color of rare wine in the candlelight, a perfect complement to her pale skin.

Her movements fascinate him as he stands, still half behind the divider, torn between knowing he should alert her to his presence and being afraid she’ll stop, that he’ll lose this chance to watch her totally unguarded. She’s alternating between a sensuous modernized waltz with a phantom partner and an emotional lyrical piece- dancing alone, reaching for someone, pulling in on herself, curling and twisting on the floor in a way he’s never seen. The song begins to draw to a close, the woman half whispering her final words, and Morgan ends on the floor: knees tucked to the side, balancing on her hip and hand as the other reaches out to the darkness above the stereo, pulling back to her heart as her head drops, her bracing hand slides out, and she gently drops to lie there, breathing in the stillness.

He swallows hard, almost overwhelmed by the emotions stirred by the number, and he feels a slight shame at the intrusion, feeling like he’s been spying on something terrible private. Turning noiselessly on his heel, he has made a few inches progress toward the door when he hears a stifled sob behind him. His head whips back toward the sound and he’s moving before he realizes it, his mind whirling at the thought of Morgan crying. He’d thought, when she was dancing, that there might have been a faint shimmer of tears in her eyes, but she was moving so smoothly and quickly that he’d put it down to a trick of the light. This, however, was undeniable, and the sight of her shoulders shaking as she lay on the dance floor causes his heart to stir, and break just a little.

“Morgan?” The quiet worry in the accented tone makes her breath catch, even more than the startle his sudden presence brings. Footsteps send tiny vibrations through the floorboards as he approaches, but he stops just within the ring of candles, still a distance away. He’s waiting, hesitating. She slowly sits up, brushing the tears from her cheeks with a soft sniffle, but doesn’t turn to face him, instead wrapping her arms around herself and forcing herself to steadily breathe.

She’s not sure what she’s expecting, but after a few interminable moments, she feels him close the distance between them, ease himself to the floor behind her, and a hand rests tentatively on her bare shoulder. Her eyes close at the contact, and her head tips to the side, wanting to graze her cheek against his knuckles, before she stops and straightens. His hand stays, though, and applies subtle pressure until she finally turns and looks at him. A faint ticking from the desk clock is the only sound as they merely regard one another, each waiting for the other to speak. But his hand is still on her shoulder, and she slips a few inches in his direction and lays her head on his collarbone. His arms rearrange to hold her, tenderly, and her outside arm reaches behind him to rest her hand across his shoulder blade, a mimic of a dance hold.

His body is rocking gently, swaying her side to side as she relaxes in his hold, feeling his quiet humming against her chest.

So, she says, pulling away a few inches, ‘how’d it go today?’ His exhalation is a short breathy laugh as his head shakes a moment, and he smiles when he looks back in her eyes. “Perfect. Of course, I think most of the boys are more interested in dancing with _you_ but still, it went well.’ His smile broke into a full laugh when he caught her _as if they could_ expression, eventually evaporating back into a happy silence. “I wanted to thank you. I could not have pulled it off without your help.”

Something flickers in her eyes before she smiles again, and says “Anytime” with a nod. They’re still so close, the remnants of his cologne blending with that intoxicating scent she always bears, and he’s wondering what that was he glimpsed in her eyes. Unfortunately his back chooses that moment to protest and he grimaces as he pulls away. Her brow is wrinkled in concern as her hand reaches for his other shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He nods with a slightly self-effacing air. “I’m just getting too old to sit on hard wood floors. Between the dancing and the bike-riding and extra practice lately, I’m in pretty good shape, but my back gets annoyed sitting on hard wood. Even mass can be a trial, although I think God understands.” Her laugh wraps around him as she leans in a bit, straightening with a trace of chagrin in her eyes. “I’m sorry.” His head shakes as he works to his feet, turning with a bow to offer her a hand up. “Not at all, milady. A bit of pain is always worth it to help a damsel in distress.” He gallantly kisses the back of the hand he still retains once she’s standing, and goes on more seriously with it still in his palm. “I owed you one, anyway. You really were… wonderful this afternoon.”

He sees her breath catch a bit as she looks up into his eyes, a reminder that she’s littler than he realizes sometimes with her confident personality and ever-present heels. “well, you’re so wonderful all the time… it’s the least I could do.” There is a genuine quality to her speech, and her expression is open and honest. When it starts to morph into something else, Plausible Deniability Mode as he once heard her say, he stops her with a brush of his fingertips on her lips. He can’t bear to lose this view into her, this time they’re sharing.

“Don’t. Whatever you’re about to say, however you’re about to say it, don’t. Don’t hide from me. Please.” Her lips are trembling when he slides his fingers away, and the column of her throat shivers as she works to swallow. He’s just wondering if she’ll answer, if he should take it back, when her voice breaks the silence.

“Not… when anyone else is around. I can’t…” She shakes her head and continues determinedly, “I don’t _want_ anyone else to see this. But I’ll try. I’ll try not to hide, if you won’t.” He can tell she’s holding her breath, and doesn’t trust his voice so he simply nods and she melts back into him with a smile. They stand, holding one another for a while, until she breaks them apart.

He helps her douse the candles and reset the studio’s order, and waits while she finds her shoes and holds her jacket as she slips in. She waits as he locks the studio and takes his arm as they walk down the stairs and smiles as he gallantly holds the door to the outside world for her.

They go to dinner that night, and spend a few hours talking before calling it an evening, and she pays the cab to take him home after he walks her to her door. The brush of their lips could barely be called a kiss, but they both smile and drift apart to their separate little lives and feel their world turn a bit more slowly when they’re in each other’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> so this movie is fascinating and beautiful, and I'm thrilled that I have the extended soundtrack. and I know he's supposed to get with the other dance teacher, but I always liked his chemistry with Morgan... esp. in their dance. this just... took it beyond that.  
> hope you like it. I know it's a bit late to the party.


End file.
